


Love, Enough

by itakethewords (BluntBetty)



Series: All Over You, Not Over You [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Break Up, Cheating, Divorce, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Infidelity, Implied Sexual Content, Implied divorce, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Marriage, references to semi-public sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluntBetty/pseuds/itakethewords
Summary: He supposed, after the initial shock, it wasn’t all that surprising. What was shocking was that somehow, it wasn’t anywhere on social media. Their every move watched and documented, slurped up by fans and critics of their personal lives. There wasn’t a whisper, subtle tweets mentioning either of them, hashtags dedicated to them in every combination he could think of for the situation, the scandal. Nothing.





	Love, Enough

There was always the voice in his head where he wondered when enough was enough.

Was there enough?

What was enough?

When should he say _enough_?

He was used to giving, letting people take until they had what they needed. Some days, his morbid mind likened it to hyenas ripping apart the flesh and sucking the marrow from the bones of his abandoned body until they were full, leaving the unsavory mettle and sour mucus for his ghost to sweep up and toss.

Heart on his sleeve, mind stretched thin, he was starved for touch and affection. He just wanted the love he didn’t really deserve.

The one person who didn’t take and take and _devour_ until his belly distended and drool crusted his lips, the one person who wasn’t _supposed to_.

Days were long, tiring. They were skaters, athletes. International icons for figure skating, filled to the brim with expectations from their acquaintances, friends, family. They had the weight of contractually obligated meetings, product endorsements, and smiles on their shoulders. The eyes of the sporting community and fans watching their every move. They couldn’t go on a date without it being tweeted, showing up on SNS, Instagram showing them eating, talking, arguing. A string of snapshots of their night crumbling; the evolution of soft smiles to brittle lips and furrowed brows.

Their hours didn’t line up, so rare to have a day off together. Between training on the ice, the studio, conditioning, and coaching other skaters. One came home when the other was asleep, out walking the dogs. Dinners left cold on the table, once would at least be put away with a note on the fridge, now abandoned with the cloud of irritation left hovering over their table. It was more palatable than the leftover taste of solyanka in the air. They were sleeping in the same bed, but the expanse of cotton desert was bitter cold and lonely. They’d rarely touch one another intimately.

He supposed, after the initial shock, it wasn’t all that surprising.

What was shocking was that somehow, it wasn’t anywhere on social media. Their every move watched and documented, slurped up by fans and critics of their personal lives. There wasn’t a whisper, subtle tweets mentioning either of them, hashtags dedicated to them and every combination he could think of for the situation, the scandal. Nothing.

Coming back to the rink, hoping to cajole him into a surprise date night. A nice sweater, jeans that showed his ass more than usual. He even brought his favorite chocolate, something they could share as a cheat night after their quiet meal. He wanted to discuss their future together; their careers, their home, a family. He’d been asked once, what he thought. He’d said one day, when he’d had enough of the exhausting training days, the nervous nights at competitions, when his accomplishments were enough. They agreed, there was a lot happening and one day, when life slowed down. One day was today, was now. He thought he was enough now, he considered his accomplishments enough for him, something to say he deserved to stand by his side. He’d never felt more confident in himself, in his love, in his life.

The guard at the arena nodded his way, as usual. A couple ice dancers waved goodbye as they left the women’s locker room. Everything was business as usual. The same, usual, solid.

Solid like the concrete under his shoes, solid like the ice they carved their lives upon. Solid like the lump in his throat, solid like his heart turned to stone as it dropped into the pit of his stomach. Solid like the image burned on the back of his eyelids of his husband of two years fucking one of the hockey players against the boards, solid like the sound of panting and the wet smack of lips and tongue and lube ringing in his ears.

He didn’t say anything. He left, laying the chocolate box on a bench as he turned and walked out, smile forced as he said goodbye to security and down the street to their apartment. He didn’t say anything when get got home, only let the two small dogs crawl on his lap and legs, as they were wont to do when they could sense inner turmoil brewing within him, and pulled out his phone. He scoured the internet, nothing. He pulled up the airline site, looking through flights to Fukuoka, to Bangkok. He even considered Detroit, Geneva. He reserved three destinations, waiting.

He fell asleep on the couch, waiting.

He woke up, half past eight, alone. He fed the dogs, walked them. Played with them, though they knew his heart wasn’t in it. He changed into his own pajamas, after so long wearing oversized sweats of his husband, the fabric echoing detergent. His personal scent on his own clothes was so faint, where did they draw the line? Theirs? His? The bed was ice cold, even after he changed the sheets with purpose. He didn’t want to breathe in his scent. He would take the chemical sea breeze perfume over the lush, heady musk he loved from his warm skin. He wanted to burn the sheets. He didn’t.

The door to the apartment creaked open after ten, clicking shut with quiet purpose. Quiet on purpose. The dogs were quiet, on purpose, it seemed. The click of their nails on wood was absent, the jingle of their tags missing. His voice cooed out but soon followed with a pout. He didn’t stop in the kitchen, didn’t stop at the bed to whisper a greeting to him, to tell him he was home with love and apology seeping from the words. He went directly to their bathroom, starting the shower. Something he did every night before bed, for so long now.

How long? Had he always done that? He certainly hadn’t used to skip giving a kiss to his cheek when he got home last. How long had it been since he’d received that playful peck? How long had it been since their lips pressed together in something besides a broken facsimile of domestic bliss for cameras or for the skaters they shared ice time with? How long had he been blind?

Was love enough?

Was his love enough?

Not enough for the man he’d married. For love.

He kept his back to the bathroom, letting his eyes stare into the darkness. He didn’t move when he heard the door open, saw the light switch off, and the sound of feet pad across the room. It was only with the movement of a body slipping into the sheets that he shifted, half turning onto his back.

A surprised lilted voice, quiet, questioning, met his ears. Nonchalant, almost.

All the things he wanted to say clung to his tongue, refusing to come out. The anger, the sadness, the questioning disbelief. The pleading, the begging, the insults. They melted on his gums, soaking into his veins. He couldn’t say anything. He only sighed and turned back around.

Warmth radiated against his back, an arm wrapping around his middle, hot breath against the nape of his neck. It was the first embrace in months and all he wanted to do was pull away and sob while simultaneously sink into its familiarity. But reality was, it wasn’t familiar. Not anymore. The man in bed with him was a stranger, someone he hadn’t known for a long time. Someone he wasn’t sure he really ever knew if this was something he could do.

With his eyes open, he realized he was probably one of the last to know.

Their anniversary dinner, thrown by rinkmates, hosted by an irate blond. He saw the man. Cheerfully drinking, toasting to their continued happy marriage, eating the food and handing a couple’s gift to his husband like their relationship barely encompassed sharing a roof for training. He didn’t miss the lingering fingers and their blond rink mate didn’t miss his narrowed eyes.

He cried in the bathroom of the restaurant.

A hand on his shoulder kept him from howling his pain. His tears were many but his sobs were quiet, choked off in wads of tissue and paper towel.

Was it enough now?

Had he had enough?

Had he given enough?

Were his bones picked clean, gleaming white? Was the marrow sucked out, his blood let run through and staining the ice beneath his broken and dried husk of a heart? Had he used his muscles to the max, had he exhausted his last breath by giving everything he had and then some?

He came home from lunch with rinkmates on his day off. The bedroom door shut, the dogs whining on the floor near the couch. An extra pair of shoes at the door. Moans mixing with squeaking springs. So he grabbed the leashes, took the dogs. They got along fine with cats.

He purposefully avoided the rink. It was summer, he’d planned on retiring anyway. He was thankful for the space he was offered while he ran from his problems, but it was coming to a head. The time was coming soon. He left the dogs with the cat for company and went back to their apartment. To his apartment. Early, six. They all made sure he would be busy for him. He packed his things; clothes, photos, random items. If it came into the apartment when he did, it got packed. If it was not bought with his own money, he didn’t want it.

It was surprising how much of his life he could cram into three suitcases, a duffle bag, and eight shipping boxes. He didn’t know if it was sad that the empty space where his things were didn’t really look all that empty. He lived here for four years and he’d barely made a dent in the apartment. It was no surprise he hadn’t really made an impact in his life.

He wasn’t enough.

Not for him.

The courier came promptly at lunch. He signed on the dotted line and suddenly all he had left were four bags and two dogs.

And he was taking the dogs.

He made a call. Despite his gruff exterior, he knew he could always count on the now retired coach to help him. His bags were loaded, the duffle full of the dog’s things was thrown in the back seat. They picked up the dogs, found the blond skater he’d grown so close to crying and seething. It was sad to see him upset, it was more sad that he didn’t have tears left in him for himself.

He managed to get the dogs with him, buying the seat next to him helped and they were good travellers. He didn’t even look back, not really. The one time while he stood to get his boarding pass scanned, hoping to see him run up, no that doesn’t count.

Was it enough time?

Were there enough hints?

Moscow, Shanghai, Tokyo, Fukuoka, Hasetsu. Eighteen plus hours of travel.

And still, there was someone to meet him at the train station. Like always.

He felt more at home walking through the door of the onsen than he ever did in Saint Petersburg.

A weight lifted off his shoulders. No meetings, no endorsements, no smiles. He was allowed to cry, allowed to scream and beat his fists on his sister’s back as he ugly sobbed. No one asked, they knew him so well. They knew he’d share when, if, he was ready.

They knew he’d come home with two toy poodles, a new cell phone still in the box, and a faint tan line where his gold bands used to sit on his right ring finger. His belongings arrived three days later.

The idol merchandise had mysteriously vanished from the property, no one would tell him where it went.

Months later, when a late night Skype call comes in, he lets his best friend know how he left. How he left his rings on the table with his key to the apartment and the key to the rink. Laying on a letter he penned with a steadfast hand. The letter was enough, it said enough, it drew the line at enough.

* * *

 

_Viktor,_

_I have loved you for fifteen years._

_I have been in love with you for five years._

_I have loved myself for three years._

_I have more love for myself than you, knowing you don’t seem to love me enough. I’m not sure where along the way things went wrong. There’s too many reasons to just blame one person._

_But I do blame you for not talking, not communicating with me. I’m not sure why you did it. I’m not sure how long it went on. I do blame you for deciding you needed someone else more than you needed me and that you did not respect me enough to tell me this. I don’t know if you thought you couldn’t come to me for sex. I don’t know how deep your relationship with him is. If there are others. If it was just sex, I really don’t know what to say to that. Because that really does sound like I lack eros after all. Or maybe there was a different reason._

_Did you trip, your dick catching on his ass as he broke your fall? In the rink, in the locker room, at the park, in our bedroom, all over the apartment?_

_Or were you giving him mouth-to-dick resusitation at our anniversary party near the kitchens?_

_I don’t know how long you actually loved me. Or if you did at all. If I was a passing fancy, some toy you grew bored of, the novelty worn off, the memories gold plated and tarnished. If you did, when did you realize you fell out of love? You can’t tell me you still do, not with actions like these that scream louder than words ever could._

_I loved you once, I know one day I will be able to look at certain memories with fondness and no longer cry. But when you’re known as someone with a glass heart, it’s obvious it will take time._

_I gave everything I could, I gave and gave. I could have tried in some ways, just a little harder, sure. I’m not perfect. I’ve decided I’m done giving and now, I’m taking._

_I’m taking back my name, I’m taking back control of my life - alone. And I’m taking the dogs. Anything else I’ve left behind, if it isn’t from before we met, you can do what you want with it. Sell it, burn it, give it to him. If you find anything sentimental of mine that’s pre-Sochi, give it to the kitten. He can return it to me._

_I’ve given enough. I’ve finally decided enough is enough. Your love, the little you have left for me, isn’t enough._

_No longer yours,_

_Katsuki Yuuri._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm full of angst lately.
> 
> First, I have not abandoned Inevitable. Promise.  
> Second, I'm on tumblr as velvetcovered-brick, come say hi.  
> Third, listen to the album "Through Yourself and Back Again" by Thriving Ivory


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